Tess Gerritsen - Keeper of the Bride

“Let me see the phone bill.”

At his first glance at the bill, Sam almost uttered a groan of frustration. It was two sheets long and covered with long distance calls, most of them to Bangor numbers, a few to Massachusetts and Florida. It would take hours to track all those numbers down, and the chances were it would simply lead them to Marilyn Dukoff’s bewildered friends or family.

Then he focused on one number, at the bottom of the bill. It was a collect call charge, from a South Portland prefix, dated a week and a half ago at 10:17 p.m. Someone had called collect and Marilyn Dukoff had accepted the charges.

“This could be something,” Sam noted. “I need the location of this number.”

“We can call the operator from my car,” said Gillis. “but I don’t know what it’s going to get you.”

“A hunch. That’s what I’m going on,” Sam admitted.

Back in Gillis’s car, Sam called the Directory Assistance supervisor.

After checking her computer, she confirmed it was a pay phone. “It’s near the corner of Calderwood and Hardwick, in South Portland.”

“Isn’t there a gas station on that corner?” asked Sam.

“I seem to remember one there.”

“There may be, Detective. I can’t tell you for certain.”

Sam hung up and reached for the South Portland map. Under the dome light, he pinpointed the location of the pay phone. “Here it is,” he said to Gillis.

“There’s just some industrial buildings out there.”

“Yeah, which makes a collect call at 10:17 p.m. all the more interesting.”

“Could’ve been anyone calling her. Friends, family. For all we know—”

“It was Spectre,” Sam said. His head jerked up in sudden excitement. “South Portland. Let’s go. ”

“What?”

Sam thrust the map toward Gillis. “Here’s Bickford Street. A squad car was dispatched there at 12:10. And here’s Calderwood and Hardwick. The squad car would’ve gone right through this area.”

“You think Spectre’s holed up around there?”

Sam scrawled a circle on the map, a three-block radius around Calderwood and Hardwick. “He’s here. He’s got to be around here.”

Gillis started the car. “I think our haystack just got a hell of a lot smaller.”

Twenty minutes later, they were at the corner of Hardwick and Calderwood. There was, indeed, a gas station there, but it had been closed down and a For Sale — Commercial Property sign was posted in the scraggly strip of a garden near the road. Sam and Gillis sat in their idling car for a moment, scanning the street. There was no other traffic in sight.

Gillis began to drive up Hardwick. The neighborhood was mostly industrial. Vacant lots, a boating supply outlet. A lumber wholesaler. A furniture maker. Everything was closed for the night, the parking lots empty, the buildings dark. They turned onto Calderwood.

A few hundred yards later, Sam spotted the light. It was faint, no more than a yellowish glow from a small window — the only window in the building. As they pulled closer, Gillis cut his headlights. They stopped half a block away.

“It’s the old Stimson warehouse,” said Sam.

“No cars in the lot,” Gillis noted. “But it looks like someone’s home.”

“Didn’t the Stimson cannery close down last year?”

Sam didn’t answer; he was already stepping out of the car.

“Hey!” whispered Gillis. “Shouldn’t we call for backup?”

“You call. I’m checking it out.”

“Sam!” Gillis hissed. “Sam!”

Adrenaline pumping, Sam ignored his partner’s warnings and started toward the warehouse. The darkness was in his favor; whoever was inside wouldn’t be able to spot his approach. Through the cracks in the truck bay doors, he saw more light, vertical slivers of yellow.

He circled the building, but spotted no ground floor windows, no way to look inside. There was a back door and a front door, but both were locked.

At the front of the building, he met up with Gillis.

“Backup’s on the way,” Gillis informed him.

“I have to get in there.”

“We don’t know what we’ll find in there—” Gillis suddenly paused and glanced at his car.

The phone was ringing.

Both men scurried back to answer it.

Sam grabbed the receiver. “Navarro here.”

“Detective Navarro,” said the police operator. “We have an outside phone call for you. The man says it’s urgent. I’ll put it through.”

There was a pause, a few clicks, and then a man’s voice said, “I’m so glad to reach you, Detective. This car phone of yours is coming in handy.”

“Spectre?”

“I’d like to issue a personal invitation, Detective. To you and you alone. A reunion, with a certain someone who’s right here beside me.”

“Is she all right?”

“She’s perfectly fine.” Spectre paused and added with a soft tone of threat. “For the moment.”

“What do you want from me?”

“Nothing at all. I’d just like you to come and take Miss Cormier off my hands. She’s becoming an inconvenience. And I have other places to go to.”

“Where is she?”

“I’ll give you a clue. Herring.”

“What?”

“Maybe the name Stimson rings a bell? You can look up the address. Sorry I won’t be here to greet you, but I really must be going.”

SPECTRE HUNG UP the phone and smiled at Nina. “Time for me to go. Lover boy should be here any minute.” He picked up his toolbox and set it in the car, which he’d driven through the loading bay to keep it out of sight.

He’s leaving, she thought. Leaving me as bait for the trap.

It was cool in the warehouse, but she felt a drop of sweat slide down her temple as she watched Spectre reach down for the radio transmitter. All he had to do was flick one switch on that radio device, and the bomb would be armed, the countdown started.

Ten minutes later, it would explode.

Her heart gave a painful thud as she saw him reach for the radio switch. Then he smiled at her.

“Not yet,” he said. “I wouldn’t want things to happen prematurely.”

Turning, he walked toward the truck bay door. He gave Nina a farewell salute. “Say goodbye to Navarro for me. Tell him I’m so sorry to miss the big kaboom.” He unlatched the bay door and gave the handle a yank. It slid up with the sound of grating metal. It was almost open when Spectre suddenly froze.

Right in front of him, a pair of headlights came on.

“Freeze, Spectre!” came a command from somewhere in the darkness. “Hands over your head!”

Sam, thought Nina. You found me….

“Hands up!” yelled Sam. “Do it!”

Silhouetted against the headlights, Spectre seemed to hesitate for a few seconds. Then, slowly, he raised his hands over his head.

He was still holding the transmitter.

“Sam!” cried Nina. “There’s a bomb! He’s got a transmitter!”

“Put it down,” Sam ordered. “Put it down or I shoot!”

“Certainly,” agreed Spectre. Slowly he dropped to a crouch and lowered the transmitter toward the floor. But as he lay it down, there was a distinct click that echoed through the warehouse.

My God, he’s armed the bomb, thought Nina.

“Better run,” said Spectre. And he dived sideways, toward a stack of crates.

He wasn’t fast enough. In the next instant, Sam squeezed off two shots. Both bullets found their target.

Spectre seemed to stumble. He dropped to his knees and began to crawl forward, but his limbs were moving drunkenly, like a swimmer trying to paddle across land. He was making gurgling sounds now, gasping out curses with his last few breaths.

“Dead,” wheezed Spectre, and it was almost a laugh. “You’re all dead….”